Inmate Padilla (Part Three of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #569

 Photo Courtesy of Dreamstime.com

 

Claudio’s done his stretch and is getting out of the pen, despite the authorities’ desperation to hang a murder charge on him. I wonder how Claudio will handle his pending freedom? Can he straighten up and fly right? Let’s see.

 

*****

                                                             INMATE PADILLA                                           

The inmate clerk in the clothing room issued his two sets of civilian clothes an hour later. “This is the day, huh, Chief?”

“Yeah, I’m putting this clusterfuck behind me.” Might as well be civil. The guy had slipped him extra socks and shorts from time to time.

The hack in charge of the place stalked up and glared at Claudio. “Move it, Padilla. They’re waiting for you. I hope you find as good cock on the outside as you got in here.”

His blood went cold. He halted in his tracks.

The guard dropped into a crouch. “Try it, Indian. Come on. Please.”

Something was wrong. The hack was unarmed and out of shape. No way the man would take him on, not in a million years. Unless the cards were stacked. Claudio stepped back to the counter “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Talbert. You gonna wish me luck?”

The guard waved him away. “Stuff it. Go on, get outa here.”

He almost collided with two guards hanging around outside the door, the aces up the fat fuck’s sleeve. He spoke to them courteously, calling each by name as he fell into his macho gait on the way to Administration. The bastards were about to choke on that unsolved killing. They had a dead con with no one to pin him on. It drove them batty that their prime suspect was about to walk out the gate. They’d hung onto him as long as they could by lying to the parole board, like the sheriff down home had lied to get him in here.

He walked on eggshells through the discharge procedure and didn’t take a good breath until the gate clanged behind him. On the ride to the bus station, the world seemed odd, off-kilter. The whole universe was upside down. Being locked up and watched every minute of the day and night and sleeping in a cubby-hole with strips of iron for curtains was natural, and all of this space with nobody to tell you when to go to the crapper was strange? Weird.

Convinced the two old women sitting behind him knew he was straight out of the joint and had been fucked by fairies, he got off the bus in Albuquerque.

He left the depot and ignored the chilly wind to start walking. He had no idea where he was or where he was going. All the talk was about something called the Suez Canal Crisis and a hillbilly kid with the duck’s ass haircut and swivel hips called Elvis Presley.

After a look around downtown, he started up a long street that turned out to be East Central. He put one foot in front of the other for miles simply because there was no wall or fence to run up against. After passing the University Book Store and the University Drug Store, he realized the big buildings across the street must be the University. Was Paul Martinson still there?

On a side street in the university area, he found a used clothing store willing to trade him three worn pairs of dungarees, some cotton shirts, and a pair of boots for his two sets of brand new khakis and cheap prison shoes. The girl who waited on him was the only other person in the place. Short with long stringy hair, she chewed gum non-stop, but, man, did she have curves.

When he asked to change into his new duds, she waved him to the back of the small store and told him nobody would bother him. The clerk watched as he tore off his shirt. Beginning to get turned on, he shucked his pants. The woman walked over and eyed him frankly.

“You work out or something? That’s a damned good bod.”

“Yeah, I been with this work crew out on the desert.”

“Bullshit, honey. I know state issue when I see it. You been in the joint. I had an old man up there for a while.” She came closer and eyed him frankly. “How about it, want to work off some of that tension, or did they make a queer out of you up there?”

“They made me queer for girls with long hair who chew gum.”

She locked the door, and he took her on the floor of the crummy little shop. She was still shedding clothes when he threw her down and mounted her. He came almost immediately.

“Damned muscle boys. Got no staying power.”

He slapped her on the side of the head, and she came up fighting. As he pinned her to the floor, he got hard again and threw it to her savagely. She gasped and called him a dirty name. He stabbed her viciously with his body. By the time he climaxed again, she’d come at least twice. He sat up and tried to control his breathing.

“Man, that was some fuck!” She lifted her hips and pulled up her undergarment. “You ripped my panties, you shit. But you know what? I think I’ll set up camp outside the gates and catch all the cons when they’re turned loose.” She ran a hand over his chest. “Anybody ever tell you you’re pretty?”

“A couple of fags, but they were sorry.”

“I’ll tell you, and I won’t be sorry. You’re prettier than most women. You Mexican?”

He shook his head. “Apache.”

“Oh, wow! That’s groovy. I go for the natural things. You know… natural foods, natural fibers. I guess they don’t come any more natural than Native Americans.”

When he stood and began dressing, she kissed his groin and got up. She tried to talk him into staying, even offering to let him move in with her, but he’d already violated parole by not going straight to Terreon and reporting to the Sheriff’s Office. He stuffed his spare clothes in the paper bag she gave him and crossed the street to wander the University of New Mexico campus looking for Paul Martinson. All he spotted were lots of kids headed this way and that way like they were rushing to save the world.

Well, one thing about it. He hadn’t lost his taste for women. After fucking that good-looking kid, Luis, for a year, he hadn’t been able to be absolutely certain. He paused as he reconsidered. Maybe he’d find himself another Luis… you know, just for now and then.

 *****

So you tell me, did Claudio come out of the pen a changed man? Oh, yeah. He’s a murderer, isn’t he. But do you get the feeling he misses Luis… just a little?

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Inmate Padilla (Part Two of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #568

 Photo Courtesy of Dreamstime.com

 

 

So Claudio’s in the penitentiary for a long stretch. Five years for his first takedown, armed robbery of a ranch. Not a rustling, but theft of payroll money. Sounds like something personal’s going on there, doesn’t it? Let’s see what happens next.

 

Last week, a con named Lawless approached him at work in Prison Industries. Claudio warned the man off. Did the warning take?

 

                                                                                                      

*****

                                                             INMATE PADILLA                                           

“You don’t understand. I don’t want no prissy queen” Lawless said. “They all over the place. I like fresh, young ones that ain’t never been plowed before. Hell, man, I want you.”

Claudio stood up. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

He fought them all, punching and kicking and butting. He made no noise, raised no cry, but the ruckus was considerable. Any minute the guards would come running and put an end to it. They’d lock him up for fighting, but that was better than getting fucked.

But no one came. The four men worked him out from behind the table. He put one down, but the other three took whatever punishment he dealt and fought for what they wanted. He connected with a roundhouse to Lawless’s temple and kicked a second man in the groin. But the other two had the upper hand by then. A fist to his jaw made him go blind. He lashed out wildly, but he was taking more than he was dishing out. Eventually, he quit swinging.

They dragged him to his workbench and tried to bend him over it. When he mustered the strength to throw two of them off, someone slammed him over the head with a board. Hands were already tugging at his pants before he passed out.

He came to lying beneath the worktable with his trousers around his ankles. Localized pain told him they’d raped him. He staggered to his feet and pulled up his clothes. He winced as he sat on his stool. The four men were gone. His own crew was back at work, each man intent on his own job. No one glanced in his direction.

Claudio’s face burned. He blinked back tears. He was twenty-five-years-old and a man and a tribesman. They could stain his soul and violate his body, but they’d never see him cry. He went to work as if nothing had happened and turned his rage inward where he could feed off of it.

That night, he slept little. Instead, he relived the attack and plotted his revenge. They’d learn not to screw with Claudio Padilla. Damn them all! Damn the Martinsons and that whore of a sheriff for putting him here. They’d planted marked money on him. He’d gone thirsty to keep from spending a dime of that loot. But there it was in his bedroll when the FBI punk and that son-of-a-bitching sheriff came out grinning like bitches in heat. He’d kill Wilson Little Wolf. And that slut of a wife, too. They’d robbed him, and then they turned him in. They’d put him in this cesspool to be fucked like a faggot. He seriously considered strangling the Mexican kid sleeping in the bunk above him just for practice. He might have tried it, except every part of him hurt. His sphincter burned and spasmed like a thing in agony. He had only half a grip in his right hand and could lift his left arm no more than shoulder high.

It was almost dawn before he slept, but he awoke at the bell amazingly refreshed. He reported for work as if nothing had happened. As he passed Lawless’s workstation, the man gave him a wink. By the end of the day he knew what he was going to do and how he was going to do it, but he let a month pass before he made his move.

One minute after Lawless left his work area for the latrine, Claudio slipped into the short corridor and hid behind a stack of lumber. When the man walked by on his way back to his station, Claudio grabbed him by the collar and swung him around. Lawless ran right into the wall, his head making an audible thunk against the concrete. He fell to his knees, hurt but not out.

“Hey, man, no hard feelings. Most new guys get it like that.”

Claudio kicked him in the solar plexus. Lawless fought for air until he could speak again. “Okay…tables turned…my turn…on my knees.”

A chop behind the ear laid the man on his belly. Still without uttering a word, Claudio stomped on the man’s neck as hard as he could. Then he sauntered back to his bench and turned out the best work he’d ever done.

For the next two hours he expected someone to raise an alarm, but Lawless wasn’t missed until headcount. The screws went crazy when the body was found. Industries was locked down, and every inmate was stripped and searched where he stood. Then there was a general lockdown while the authorities tried to decide what to do.

Two of his rapists staged a fight and went into solitary confinement. The third man slugged a guard and accomplished the same thing. That’s all right. He was patient.

The excitement lasted a few days and then died away. Lawless had been involved in running drugs in the prison, so the authorities elected to think his death was connected to that.

Claudio’s aches and pains faded, but the inability to fully utilize his arm did not. That was how he discovered the inmate’s greatest obsession—physical fitness. He began exercising daily. In a few weeks, his muscles puffed and rolled. His waist shrank; his hips slimmed. He drew more and more hungry stares, but no one made a move in his direction. Everyone in the joint knew who killed Lawless and why—except the people responsible for keeping the convict alive.

Claudio worked in Industries and exercised in the yard and ate and slept and avoided everyone… except Luis. The kid was cute and his ass trim and snug. Still didn’t mean anything… just relief, that’s all.

The small Indian population in the prison had formed itself into a clique, but he held them at bay, content to live alone with his constant companion—hate.

Despite the corded muscles and the glow of health, the grip refused to fully return in his right hand, and there wasn’t as much strength in his left arm as there should have been. He didn’t dare risk reporting to sick call. Too many sharks would jump him at the first sign of weakness.

****

Eyes followed Claudio’s every move as he strutted across the exercise yard. It was a chilly March day, but he’d stripped off his shirt to give them one last show before putting these wall behind him. They always watched him: hacks, cons, pansies. Some of the hard cores wanted a go at him. The queers wanted him. He’d driven them crazy for three years, flirting and then hurting if they made a move. Whistles and catcalls followed him to the fence and back to the building. Luis had been released, and Claudio didn’t replace him. Hand jobs kept him from going loco, but weren’t as sweet as the kid’s tight ass.

Three years of long hours on weights had purged his mind and body of every ounce of flab. He was something rare in this house of hardened, callous men—a pretty boy who refused to be fucked over. The terrible retribution he’d extracted for his rape wrapped him in an invisible shield. Physically, he was in better shape than his Corps days. Except for the arm that’d been injured in the rape. Invisible to the eye, it was nonetheless a weakness and a constant threat. If the bastards ever sensed he was vulnerable, they’d flock like vultures on a rotting carcass. But he’d hidden it from them. At times, he strained the arm almost beyond its capacity on the weights, probably contributing to its weakened state. Well, the bastards would never find out.

 

*****

I guess that proves you don’t screw with Claudio. After the assault, Claudio kept them off his ass, but he didn’t see anything wrong with laying it to Luis any time he wanted it. Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Inmate Padilla (Part One of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #567

 Photo Courtesy of Dreamstime.com

 

Hope you liked the “Splendid Desolation: story. Today, I want to start a new story with a different theme. Let me know how you like it.

 

                                                                                                      

*****

                                                                      INMATE PADILLA                                           

 

The van entered a gate in the ten-foot chain link fence topped with razor wire and came to a halt at the sally port of the New Mexico State Penitentiary in Santa Fe. Two deputies ushered three men through a series of high-security metal doors into a room where they removed shackles and restraining chains from the prisoners.

Claudio watched a heavy-set man running to fat jaw with one of the deputies who’d delivered them. Fatso seemed to be in charge of the prison side of things. The other two prisoners shifted impatiently while the hacks joked about what a crappy place the pen was. Claudio sat without moving. He was in no hurry. He wasn’t going anywhere for a long time.

Eventually, the deputies left and the dumpy prison guard, backed by two other officers, turned his attention to the prisoners. “Stand up when your name’s called. Inmate Padilly!”

Claudio sat where he was.

“Inmate Padilly!” the guard repeated in a loud voice. Claudio still didn’t move. The man stalked out into the area where the prisoners sat and lifted a photograph, comparing it to Claudio. “How come you didn’t you answer when I called your name, boy?”

“I didn’t hear nobody call my name.”

The prison hack leaned over, his face so close his breath almost made Claudio recoil. “Nobody likes a smart-ass con. And ‘specially nobody likes a smart-ass Injun con. Whenever me or any other official of this penal institution calls out your name or anything even close, you stand up and let out a hoot and a holler. So if I says Inmate Padilly or Inmate Patootie or Inmate Papoose, you jump up and kiss my ass, you hear? Inmate Papoose!”

Claudio rose slowly enough to be noticeable and fast enough so the man couldn’t complain. “I’m Claudio Padilla.”

“No, you ain’t. You’re Inmate Padilla.”

“Inmate Padilla.” No harm humoring the bastard.

“Get in there and strip off everything. I want you nekked as the day you was born.” Then the fat guard started in on the other two prisoners, leaving Claudio standing bare-assed on cold concrete. Eventually, the other two stood beside him while the guards circled them, making notes of all tattoos—he had none—and obvious scars.

After that humiliation, they were ordered into the showers where the guards sprayed them with a foul-smelling mist—to get rid of cooties.

“All right, bend over and spread ‘em,” Fatso said. The guards made a joke out of examining body cavities, using a flashlight to make sure there was no contraband up there.

Then the new inmates showered and were fingerprinted, photographed, and assigned a number. Finally, they trooped over to another room for clothing and bedding.

On the way to the cellblock for quarantine, he caught his first glimpse of the place he would call home for the next five years. Noise was the overwhelming impression. It was not especially loud, just a constant rumble. Instinctively, he knew it never died but went on forever: the drone of voices, endless hawking, spitting, grunting, the clang of metal on metal, the ringing thump of wood on metal. Man noises, nothing but man noises.

And then there were the eyes. Eyes that watched him with curiosity, contempt, suspicion, fear, loathing, lust, bemusement, hate. He soon learned examining new meat for profit or threat potential was the highlight of an inmate’s life.

During the thirty endless, boring, nothing days of quarantine, the tiny cell grew smaller and smaller. Stale air. No sunlight. No moonlight. No green trees or desert grasses. He could hardly picture a piñon or imagine a mule deer or a mountain brook.

The last week there, he discovered a secret to sustain him for the rest of his time in the joint: how to focus his hate. Feeding off of it gave him strength and power. He woke one night from a dream about the Martinsons and furiously tossed everything in the cell that wasn’t fastened down. Ignoring the catcalls of other inmates, he worked off the pressure threatening to rip him apart. The cellblock guard never showed his face to check out the noise. Tired at last, Claudio put everything back in its place, lay down, and went to sleep.

He moved to a new block where his cellmate was a young Mexican national named Luis, who spoke very little English. They left one another alone except to borrow cigarettes and soap and safety razors from time to time. He considered the wetback an ideal cellmate. He didn’t know or care what Luis thought about the arrangement.

At the close of his thirtieth day in the joint, Claudio grabbed the kid around the waist as he climbed to the top bunk and hauled him down to sit on Claudio’s lap. The warmth of Luis’ ass on his cock felt good. The kid didn’t say a word when Claudio stripped Luis’ pants off and exposed himself. The kid’s eyes bugged, but he didn’t make a sound. Claudio bent him over the bunk and entered him in one long jab. A few minutes later, he shuddered through his orgasm. Didn’t mean a thing. After a month of nothing, tearing off a piece of Luis was just getting relief. Again, he didn’t know what Luis thought about it and didn’t care.

****

The woodshop in Prison Industries where Claudio was assigned made a whole series of things like name plates, tables, benches, and desks. Fifty or so men worked in the general area, but only three other inmates were in Claudio’s immediate vicinity. A wall and a couple of strategically placed cabinets gave their alcove a semblance of privacy. On the first day, one of the Industry hacks gave Claudio instructions about what was expected of him and disappeared.

He worked at his own table and paid no attention to the others around him. Occasionally, he would see a guard, but for the most part he was on his own. The third day on the job all of the regular crew disappeared as four men from other work units converged on his area.

“What’s your name?” A gray-haired man of about forty chewed on a dowel of wood like the butt of a long dead cigar.

Claudio considered not answering but gave his name.

“My handle’s Lawless. Ain’t that a pisser, a con named Lawless? I hear you’re in for robbery. This your first beef?”

“‘Cept for some Arizona county time.” Claudio clamped his mouth shut. Too much talking.

“What’d they give you?” The man wouldn’t let go.

“Five.”

“A nickel? Shit, they was hard on you. Musta been some rough stuff involved.”

Claudio went back to work. Pay them no mind. Maybe they’d go away.

“Hell, I already been here almost five.” Lawless leaned on Claudio’s work table. “Five years is a long time, know what I mean? Five years locked up in this joint. You know what, Claudio? That’s your name, right? You Mexican? That’s a Mex name, ain’t it?”

“Might be, but I ain’t Mexican.”

“Yeah, that’s what a buddy of mine in Receiving tells me. Says you’re Indian. Apache, right?” Claudio shrugged. “Whatever you are, you one good-looking son-of-a-bitch. Pretty as any girl I ever seen. But, shit, you know that, don’t you?”

Claudio raised his head and glared at the man, pouring all the ice he had into the look.

“I seen lots of them come and go, but you’re the prettiest one been through here in a long time. Christ, you got the best skin I ever seen on a man or a woman. I went with a gal down in Abilene once that had skin just like yours. Man, she was something! I bet you don’t even shave yet. Nice and smooth all over, ain’t you?”

Claudio’s voice dropped. “No man’s ever touched me, and any that tries is looking to get killed. There ought to be plenty of queers in a place like this to keep you happy. So fuck off!”

 

*****

It looks as if Claudio has picked up an admirer… an unwelcome one. Let’s see how he handles it next week, okay?

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Splendid Desolation, Part 4 of 4 Parts (A Repost)

 dontravis.com blog post #566

 Photo Courtesy of Dreamstime.com

 

 After a great night of sex, it’s time for Vince to head out toward civilization. But it doesn’t look as if Skye’s going with him. Instead, Skye is sending him to his twin brother down on the highway. Looks like there might be bad blood between the twins, because Skye’s not going with Vince. Here’s the finale.

                                                                                                       

*****

SPLENDID DESOLATION

I woke the next morning with Skye sitting beside me, watching me with his marvelous turquoise eyes, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

“Now it’s time for you to go find my twin.”

“Twin? Karl’s your twin?”

“Yes, we’re identical. He’s a good guy. He’ll help you.” The boy hesitated a moment. “I wish we had more time, but it will be hot soon. You have to be on your way. But first, I want to thank you. It was a magical night.”

“I should be thanking you, my young friend. But why should it end so soon. Come with me.”

That sweet, wistful smile appeared again. “I can’t. Please don’t ask. But perhaps I’ll see you there.”

An hour later, my head covered by a floppy cloth hat Skye provided, his canteen on my hip, and a distant butte as a marker, I paused for a final look back at the hill. Skye Hardesty, a lonely figure in the distance, raised a hand in farewell and turned to disappear over the crest. There was no sign of the tarpaulin that had sheltered us for the past two days. The kid had stowed it away for use another day.

It was late afternoon before I stumbled across a two-lane strip of blacktop. I took a half dozen more steps before realizing this was the highway. But where was the filling station? I checked my landmark, discovering I’d veered off course. Turning my weary steps north, I almost staggered past an old building set off from the road. Laughing inanely, I stumbled through the door of an old-fashioned trading post, delighted beyond all reason at the sight of another human being.

The man standing at the counter rushed to help as he realized my condition, easing me into a chair beside an old pot-bellied stove. A big glass of cold water appeared in his hand; I swigged it greedily.

“Not too much,” the man cautioned, echoing Skye’s first words to me. “Go easy now.”

It took a few minutes to collect myself and adjust to the gloom of the building’s interior. Eventually, I looked up into a pair of concerned green eyes and a familiar countenance, although this man was in his fifties.

“Mr. Hardesty?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Hardesty, my name’s Vince Lozander. I met your son. He helped me or I wouldn’t have made it.”

“Mr. Lozander,” the man replied, “my son’s a stockbroker in New York City, more’s the pity.”

Confused, I glanced around the store. “Is Karl here? Karl Hardesty?”

The room went quiet for a moment before understanding broke across the man’s pleasant features.

“I’m Karl Hardesty, Mr. Lozander. It was Skye, wasn’t it? Skye found you out there.”

A chill took possession of me. I shivered as a wave of goose bumps played down my back. “I-I don’t understand. Skye said you were….”

“His twin,” the man completed. “I am. Skye Hardesty disappeared out on that desert thirty-odd years ago. I don’t understand it either, but every once in a while, he sends me somebody from out of that desolation. Can’t really explain it, Vince. Can I call you Vince? Lots of people get lost out there every year, and he helps a few…special ones it seems like.”

He lifted the canteen strap from my shoulder and shook it. “Empty. But you brought it back. All of them do. It’s Skye’s, see?” He pointed out the name etched in the metal cap. “I always take it back out there and throw it on a hill somewhere so he can use it again.”

“But that’s crazy! The man I saw couldn’t be more than eighteen or twenty.”

“Nineteen, to be exact. Or he was thirty-two years ago when he died out there.”

“Died!” The hair on my neck rose; my skin crawled. “That’s impossible! I talked to him… uh, touched him. He was as real as you are.”

“Like I said, can’t explain it. But I know what I know. My brother was a troubled young man. He went out there to die on purpose, I think. He loved the desert, spent all his free time on it. Called it splendid desolation. It’s where he wanted to be.”

“He does love it,” I mumbled, accepting the unthinkable. “Will you tell me about him? It’s important to me.”

He eyed me speculatively. “Yes, I guess it would be. Vince, spend the night, and after supper I’ll tell you about Skye Hardesty, and how his brother let him down when it counted.”

###

Karl and Skye Hardesty were as close as identical twins could be, but one grew up straight and the other bent, or so the locals figured. One was a man; the other turned into a faggot. The whole county shook its collective head. How could it happen? They had identical genes, shared the same womb, experienced the same life events, but Karl fell in love with a local girl while Skye fell head over heels for another teenager, a boy.

“The whole place was scandalized,” Karl said wearily from the old, overstuffed chair before the potbelly. “Me along with the rest, I guess. Oh, I’d known he was different for a long time. But I figured he’d grow out of it. Should have known better. He was as hardheaded as I am. Practically the same head...except for that. When they labeled him a queer, I stopped defending him, I’m ashamed to say. Our old man was offended right down to his Evangelical roots and did everything but throw Skye out on his ass. Mama wouldn’t let dad do that, but that’s the only thing she did for Skye.

“So we all let him down. But Skye was one strong kid. He took it all, the abuse, the scorn. But when the boy he loved turned on him that was more than he could take. The kid, Nelson was his name, got caught in his perversion and tried to blame it on Skye. Called him every name you can think of in front of the whole community at a dance one night and told my brother to keep his pansy hands off him. That was after the two had fooled around for a year or better.

“Skye never said a word, just turned around and left. I should have followed him, but I was having too much fun. And if the truth be known, I didn’t want to be painted with the same brush, so I decided to put a little distance between us.

“When we got home that night, he was gone. Only things he took with him were his old jalopy and his desert gear, so I knew right away where he was. Wasn’t until I found his ring that I knew why he was out there. We had identical turquoise rings we got on a trip to Albuquerque one year. It was the most precious thing he ever owned. It was our link together, I guess you could say. He’d only leave it behind if he didn’t need it anymore. I knew he was dead before I spent a week looking for him. Found his car. That was all.”

“Maybe he never died. Maybe he went somewhere.”

Karl dug out his wallet and handed me a faded picture. “That’s him on the left. Me on the right. Is that him?”

“Y-yes.” The skin puckered on my arms and back. My scalp prickled. “That’s him.”

“Then how come he didn’t get old like I did?” Karl asked the unanswerable.

But I wasn’t listening. There was another presence in the room. Something powerful but insubstantial. The sudden fear and apprehension fell away. I was free and happy and special. I looked at Karl Hardesty and answered the man’s last question.

“Because you still need your flesh and bone. He doesn’t.” I peered into the deep shadows in the cavernous room. But the air had cleared; Karl and I were alone in the room now.

“He’s gone,” Karl mused. “He comes sometimes when he’s sent somebody extra special. You must be very, very special, Vince. And I thank you for it. I sorta enjoy his visits from time to time. I like to think it means he’s forgiven me.”

“He has, Karl. Believe me, he has.”

 *****

All's well that ends well... sorta. Hope you enjoyed the story. Have no idea what next week brings. 

Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Splendid Desolation, Part 3 of 4 Parts (A Repost)

 dontravis.com blog post #565

 Photo Courtesy of Dreamstime.com

 

After being drugged, hijacked, and abandoned on Western New Mexico’s high desert country, Vince starts walking toward nowhere, hoping he’ll blunder into civilization. He doesn’t. Let’s see what happens when he awakens after a cold night.

 

                                                                                                   

*****

SPLENDID DESOLATION

I woke at first light wrapped in warm blankets and shaded by an awning of scrap canvas stretched between two boulders. Something soft and wet was pressed against my cracked lips. I sucked on it like a blind baby finding a tit.

“Not too much,” a voice cautioned. Focusing my eyes, I discovered a young man sitting cross-legged beside me holding a dripping cloth to my lips. Davy! He’d come back for me. “Take it slow,” the youngster cautioned.

Despite the words, I sucked the rag dry of the sweetest nectar known to man… water. I tried to sit up, but discovered I was too weak to even lift my head. “Where am I?” My voice sounded like a bullfrog with a whiskey problem.

The young man smiled, revealing teeth brighter than Sweetie’s. I realized he was not Davy; this youth had a little bulk to his frame, although he was as spectacularly handsome at that miserable little shit. Dark curls fell across a broad forehead as yet unmarked by life. Turquoise eyes, somewhere between blue and green, smiled along with a broad, sensual mouth.

“You’re safe. You just need to rest and gain some strength, and then we’ll get you to shelter.”

“How’d you find me?”

“That’s what I do,” the youth responded in a light baritone. “I find people in trouble out here. You’d be surprised how many there are.”

“Not if they’re as stupid as I am,” I grumbled, accepting more water from a canteen.

“Folks get insulated from the desert by air-conditioned cars and forget how dangerous it is.”

“Can you show me the way me back to civilization?”

“Sure. As soon as you get your strength back. Right now, I want you to eat some trail mix. We’ll try bacon and eggs later.”

Trail mix had always tasted like confetti, but the stuff this kid fed me was ambrosia. After that feast, I dropped back into a restless sleep. It wasn’t until afternoon that I felt strong enough to put a good, solid meal under my belt. Then I took notice of our surroundings. We were camped on a steep hill crowned by two large boulders. There was nothing but nothing for miles in every direction. I wondered how the dark-haired youngster managed to carry my dead weight up the slope of the hill.

Seeing I was awake, the boy abandoned chopping scraggly bits of wood with a hatchet to check on me. “Feeling better now?”

“Yeah. Think I’ll make it. When can we leave?”

“Not till tomorrow. You oughta be in better shape by then.”

“Why not now? Hell, we ought to make it by sundown.”

The boy looked at me with dawning comprehension. “I’m sorry, man. I don’t have a vehicle. You’ve gotta walk out.”

My heart sank. My dismay must have shown. The kid laid a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll be better provisioned this time, and you’ll know where you’re going. By the way, my name’s Skye. Skye Hardesty.” The youth offered a strong hand that reminded me how weak I was. “I know you’re Vince because I looked in your billfold when I wasn’t sure what the situation was. Hope you don’t mind.”

I shook my head. “Sky? Like that up there,” I asked, pointing upward.

“Skye with an ‘e’. My brother got a normal name, Karl, but they tagged me Skye. Go figure.” The kid was not only good-looking; he was also likable. “By the way, your wallet’s empty. Just has a driver’s license and a couple of pictures.”

I swore aloud. “That thieving son of a bitch! I had five hundred and some credit cards. I’m gonna wring his scrawny neck!” That elicited a slew of questions, all of which I answered, laying out my story…minus the romp in the truck bed. Skye agreed there were some pretty bad people in this world.

It grew uncomfortable even under the protective awning in the hottest part of the afternoon, but my rescuer had chosen well. Our hillock caught whatever faint breeze the thermal heat stirred across the desert. Skye suddenly reappeared from wherever he’d been and hovered over me. The kid hadn’t even broken a sweat. Used to it, I guessed.

“I wanta clean you up some. We don’t have a lot of water, but I’ve got enough to sponge you off. It’ll keep you a little cooler, too. Okay?”

I licked lips that felt almost normal and nodded. “Sure. But I can do it.”

“If you’ll put up with me getting kinda personal, I’ll do it. I won’t waste as much water.”

So I sprawled atop my blanket wondering if I could control myself as the boy carefully removed my clothing. Couldn’t afford to scare the kid off…he was my ticket out of this jam. I watched as the young man wet a rag, rubbed it against a small scrap of soap, and set about washing me from head to foot with water from his seemingly bottomless canteen.

When he was finished, Skye sat cross-legged and looked me over carefully. Searching for spots he missed, I guessed. Any though of covering myself quickly died as the evaporating moisture cooled my sunburned flesh.

“You sure are a handsome man,” Skye ventured shyly after a moment.

“Never thought of myself like that.”

“Not pretty, but handsome.”

I laughed aloud. “But you are…pretty, I mean.”

The boy glanced away. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen…twenty, max, but he carried a maturity about him. It was probably his serious demeanor.

After a moment’s silence, he spoke again. “I’ve heard about that place. That Eagle Bar you mentioned.” Skye turned those sometimes blue, sometimes green eyes on me. “I hear it’s one of those bear places.”

I smiled. “Yep, a bona fide cave full of bears, most of them big and hairy.”

“Like you.”

“Like me,” I confirmed. But his close examination cut off my dissertation on the bear subculture of the United States.

Skye faltered. “They’re…they’re homosexuals, aren’t they?”

“Lots of us,” I said deliberately.

“The sex thing…that it’s pretty important, isn’t it? Sometimes sex gives people a clue to the kind of person they are.”

“Who are you, Sigmund Freud?” I laughed, intrigued by the trace of bitterness in his voice.

“No, just a guy with problems of his own.”

“What kind of problems do you have? You’re just a kid.”

“Sometimes that’s when they show up, when you’re a kid,” Skye answered. Then he turned those agate eyes on me again. “You’re a handsome man,” he repeated. Skye put a timid hand to my chest. “Sorry,” he said, jerking away quickly. “Just wanted to see what it felt like.”

That’s okay. I don’t mind. Like it, as a matter of fact.”

Skye leaned over and gently laid his head on my chest. After a while, I realized he was working up his courage.

“It’s okay, kid.”

Instantly, he embraced me with a hunger I’d rarely seen. The world sort of went crazy as we became wrapped up in one another. When it was over, we sat side by side without touching.

“Feel better now?” he asked. “I figured you needed it. I…I don’t do that with everybody.”

“Thanks, kid. You’re right. I needed it. And it was great. How about you? You need any help?”

Skye slowly shook his head. “Not right now.”

We fell silent as we looked out at the desert below the hill.

I shivered. “Such desolation.”

He leaned his shoulder against mine. “Splendid desolation.”

“If you say so.”

He looked at me and smiled. “I do. It is.”

I stretched out on the blanket and closed my eyes to avoid noticing again how handsome the kid was. The next thing I knew, I woke at sunset, still naked but covered by a blanket. Skye handed me a tin cup of stew, which I devoured hungrily.

“It’ll get cold now,” Skye commented, observing the unbelievable sunset to the west. “Beautiful, isn’t it. This is the greatest place in the world.”

“Bleakest, you mean,” I groused, little moved by nature’s garish spectacle.

“It’s the place I chose,” Skye mused. “I’ve never been sorry.”

“To each his own.”

The boy gave me a wry grin. “Yeah. But sometimes it takes a long time to learn that.”

“How’d you get to be so smart?”

“Lots of suffering.”

“Yeah, sure. You look like you suffered daily for all of what? Twenty years?”

“Things aren’t always the way they seem,” Skye turned enigmatic. “You’re stronger, I think. You’ll be on your way tomorrow. I’ll miss you.”

“You’re not going with me?” I asked in amazement.

“No, I still have things to do here.”

“Where the hell do you live?”

The boy motioned to the west with his chin, a touch of sadness hiding in the reflected hues of the dying sunset. “Over there, but there’s a gas station down on the highway that’s closer.” Skye pointed over his shoulder. “My brother, Karl, runs it. He’ll take care of you when you get there.”

“So come with me and see your brother. Is there bad blood between you or something?”

“Not anymore.” Suddenly, the youth seemed to cheer up. “But I’ll stay with you tonight. We’ll be together for a while longer.”

I shivered suddenly and considered whether I should put on my clothes. The boy seemed to read my thoughts.

“I used some of the water to rinse out your things. They aren’t clean, but they’re not filthy like they were. Afraid they’re not quite dry. But I’ve got an extra blanket,” he said, going to the mysterious pack propped against the rocks that seemed to hold everything but the proverbial kitchen sink.

Skye built a comfortable fire from the pieces of cactus and desert wood he’d cut earlier in the day. Then as the fire warmed the immediate vicinity, we took to the blankets and shared another bout of lovemaking. I lay quiet, permitting him to set the agenda. He was competent, tender, but I sensed he was somewhat withdrawn, even as he led me through the most tremendous, the most stunning, the most satisfying intimate experience I’d ever had.

 

*****

Wow! The best sex Vince has ever had... from a twink. A mysterious twink. But at least it seems as if Skye can get him back to civilization and safety. Let's see how next week. 

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.